Homecoming Hindsight

There was a sea of humans pretending to be tigers. Shouting and cheering and whooping and hollering, adrenaline and comradeship pulsing through the crowd in the mob-like human tendency to put on the masks of monsters, and I was just trying to get out of there.

He was standing on the floor, beaming, all charisma and charm, winning an award for something he didn't believe in. Conducting the crowd which way to shout. Got on one knee, handed her flowers, and it was all pretend, just a part of the show. All staying in character on a stage made of gym bleachers, and I really needed to leave. The doors were closed and guarded, the benches thick and unmovable with bodies. In ran the football team, the volleyball, tennis, swimming, and I was already late.

The band played and the crowd cheered and I covered my ears and closed my eyes and waited for it to be over.

Even after the assembly, when the people went outside and the band packed away their music, the masks stayed on. The great act was still in effect. Boys and girls pretended to love and the crowned winner was walking through an empty floor as I was on my way out. I congratulated him, one congratulation out of the many he must have heard that day, from many giggling young girls and laughing young boys. One small, insignificant word that I assumed meant nothing to anyone but me.

"Congratulations on winning the Most Beautiful award."

He turned around, grinning.

"You too."

Strange butterflies then. Moth-like creatures fluttering awake in a small adolescent gut, tiny heart gears beginning to turn. I frowned. Gritted my teeth.

I thought he was saying it to make fun of how not beautiful I am.

Jerk, I thought to myself. Doors closed and I stuffed my hands in my pockets. The afterthoughts of summer played silently in the air, mixed in with the smells of a parade - hot dogs and sodas and sweat - shouts from the dunk tank and laughs from the crowds.

Inside, he walked ahead, blushing.

And he meant it.

Now it's winter and the word is wearing out, the name that I assumed meant nothing to anyone but me. Like the knee patches on jeans of six-year-olds, strings sticking up out of the rough blue fabric like a shameful nakedness not meant to be seen. And now it requires an explanation, and now I realize I was wrong.

And now here I am on the floor of that gym, looking up at the faces all shouting my name, and I see a girl with a strangely panicked look holding her hands over her ears. Her, with all her ideals of beauty and imperfection and equality of souls. All her lessons in expression and authenticity and how much it is we don't know. And I see how much she doesn't see. That sometimes, in a great display of fallacy, a small piece of truth hides away behind the masks we cover it with. There are flowers in his hands, and his face is growing red.

And she thought he didn't mean it.